


tacenda.

by braunholdt



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Mention of Character Death, Past Lives, Slice of Life, egregious abuse of the em dash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28636266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braunholdt/pseuds/braunholdt
Summary: tacenda ( n) things better left unsaid; matters to be passed over in silence."He had been sixteen, when he’d died — rawboned, hollow in the face, aged beyond his years. He’s nearly twenty-five now, still young and alive longer than the few paltry years he would have been afforded with his titan. Broader in the shoulders, thicker in his waist. Sunlight pours in from the kitchen, from the window above the sink, and brightens the silhouette of his hair. His eyes have always been toned with grey, but if he turns his head just a bit, into that tawny light, Reiner thinks they might actually look green. He’s healthy, he’s whole — he’s asking him if he wants eggs for breakfast, of all things."
Relationships: Reiner Braun & Bertolt Hoover, Reiner Braun/Bertolt Hoover
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	tacenda.

**Author's Note:**

> A Reibert reincarnation au no one asked for, but that I wanted to write anyway. 
> 
> As always, thank you to [Lani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lani) for fleshing out this idea with me, and for giving it a preliminary read to make sure my unhinged ramblings were coherent enough to be posted. Much of the content involving Bertholdt in a reincarnation setting is her brainchild that she was kind enough to let me use as a basis for Reiner's musings.

Bertholdt had always been a stunning artist.

Even back then, in that life — he’d had an eye for detail Reiner could never hope to possess. A way of capturing things that no one else could.

He doesn’t intend to be invasive, not really. Reiner is simply looking for some old papers amid the clutter in the nightstand. He glances past the weathered cover of the novel Bertholdt has been steadily reading, the book light he uses when he simply can’t bear to settle in for bed before he finishes the chapter, the myriad of other unremarkable items they accumulate in their mundane life together — but he stops on the sketchpad.

Again, he doesn’t mean to be invasive. He’s supportive — the tedious normalcy of this life grants him the chance to become so many things he failed to be back then: sympathetic, nurturing, attentive, _good._ Bertholdt is passionate about art, about creating things with his hands, with charcoal and paint and graphite. Reiner is all too happy to encourage it now. They’d never had the idle time for it back then, though he remembers — _faintly_ , he remembers — a similar book, tucked beneath a double bunk on an island called Paradis. The paper had been horribly crude, rough and nearly unusable. But Bertholdt had still toiled away with it, tucked into his corner of a communal barrack **(** _it was a barrack, wasn’t it? They were soldiers, once — warriors, too_ **)** as he etched the images around him onto paper. Bertl had always been good at that, at adapting to make things work. Reiner remembers being impressed. He’s still impressed now.

It’s not the first time he’s looked at the sketchbook. In the beginning it was all teasing, all stolen glances he’d snuck over the other man’s shoulder, just for the sake of watching a bashful luster of pink settle in his cheeks. But he’d caught sight of something one day — just a brief glance, but it had chilled him down to the very marrow of his bones. Gnashing teeth, rent flesh, splotches of gore; something that appeared to be human, but the shape wasn’t quite right. _Surely not,_ he’d thought to himself. Bertholdt would have said something by now, if he’d remembered. Somehow, Reiner would know.

_Please. Please, God, don’t let him remember._

He isn’t quite so selfish as he used to be. Surprisingly, he’s fine shouldering the burden now. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen this man smile, the way he does now — soft, unbothered, no longer muted by guilt and grief. When Reiner rests his head against his shoulder, presses his lips to the curve of muscle and darkened skin, he notices how broad the line of it is, no longer sunken in and sloped beneath the weight of a thousand innocent lives, no longer stained red with guiltless blood. How could he ever think of divulging this secret, of saying anything that would ruin his untroubled happiness? Sleepless as his nights are, burdened as his thoughts may be, all Reiner cares to do is smile through it and reassure, **‘** _It’s nothing. Honest, I’m fine. **’**_

He thumbs through the sketchbook, pauses on a cityscape. This one is a charcoal sketch. Gently, he touches the bend of the river, the walls that rise in the background. Sable dust smudges his fingertips when he draws them away. _Liberio._ He remembers this drawing, of their home. Bertholdt had given it to him for his birthday one year, back when they had been cadets, growing homesick and uncertain in their stasis. Both renderings had been from above — idly, Reiner wonders if there are ever moments where his friend remembers standing that tall, if he remembers towering over walls, peering down into towns, laying waste to anything in his path.

_Please, don’t let him remember any of it. Just let him rest. Just let him **be happy.**_

The last sketch in the book is the same as it had been the previous week. Reiner is thankful for it, though he’s no less disturbed by the image. It’s him — a version of him, at least. The…titan, yes. Titans were what they’d held. God, he’d been a horrible thing. Reiner sees the plates of calcified armor, the glowing eyes, the steam billowing from his unhinged jaw. He thinks he might be roaring here, and his lungs shudder with the memory of that sound, the way it had echoed out in a place called Shiganshina, back when—

His reverie is broken when he hears footsteps quietly padding towards the bedroom. Hastily, Reiner tucks the sketchbook back beneath the useless junk in the nightstand, the wonderfully mundane clutter they’d gathered by doing absolutely nothing. He turns, and Bertholdt and standing in the doorway of the bedroom they share, in this pitifully small house they can hardly afford.

He had been sixteen, when he’d died — rawboned, hollow in the face, aged beyond his years. He’s nearly twenty-five now, still young and alive longer than the few paltry years he would have been afforded with his titan. Broader in the shoulders, thicker in his waist. Sunlight pours in from the kitchen, from the window above the sink, and brightens the silhouette of his hair. His eyes have always been toned with grey, but if he turns his head just a bit, into that tawny light, Reiner thinks they might actually look green. He’s healthy, he’s whole — he’s asking him if he wants eggs for breakfast, of all things.

He truly has no idea.

Reiner smiles, wipes the charcoal dust off on the leg of his jeans. He walks across the cramped bedroom with the cheap, creaking floorboards, settles a hand against the other man’s hip, tips his face up towards him. He kisses Bertholdt’s cheek. There had been markings there once, he remembers — stiff tendons, exposed sinew, all heat and steam and raw muscle. All his lips feel now is warm skin, the faint scrape of stubble.

_I hope you never remember. Happiness suits you so well._

“Yeah, eggs are fine. I’ll start some coffee.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to my dearest Lani, and for all my pals on twitter who encouraged me to go ahead and post this!


End file.
